


The Pirate and The Oyster Shell

by Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Enchanted Forest, F/M, archive warnings: angst to an unprecedented degree, archive warnings: but i'm a sap so there's a happy ending, archive warnings: reads like a fairy tale, archive warnings: vaguely historical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/pseuds/Inaccessible%20Rail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Queen Emma, sole ruler of Misthaven, lives a life of isolation in an enormous, imposing castle on the outskirts of her kingdom. Killian Jones is the one-handed pirate captain who sees the world for her. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For posterity, this was initially inspired by [a crazy-gorgeous photo](http://jennifermorrisonsource.tumblr.com/post/139217217573/i-know-that-sometimes-people-project-their-ideas) of Jennifer Morrison and very, very, _very_ loosely based on the incredibly vague “romance” between Sir Walter Raleigh and Queen Elizabeth I (not that I’m sure you could even call it that, but whatever). I would also warn that this opening chapter jumps around time-wise a bit, but I hope it's not too confusing!

“She believes that, for the first time, her heart is kindling, her body a brightening blaze. For the first time, her fingers and toes are no longer numb, her heart no longer frozen in the confusion of youth. Her heart is a little oyster shell, opening, opening.” – Amber Sparks

****

PROLOGUE.

When Killian Jones looked up at the moon, he saw treasure. It had been that way almost as long as he could remember. He would glance up and make a miserable, half-hearted attempt at shutting one eye and grasping that round, gleaming white coin between thumb and forefinger. “There,” his father had whispered into his ear, “small enough to steal.”

From his place on the floor of his cold, dank prison cell, the moon is as far away as it’s ever been. One of his eyes is swollen shut, so the winking isn’t an issue, but he’s pretty sure one of those fingers is done for. He can’t steal it tonight, but it’s still shining as bright as ever. And he’s pretty sure it’s for him. When he manages to sneak a glimpse of the barest hint of a cloud passing overhead, he thinks he can hear the gentle swishing of fabric as it wraps around her legs. In the light of the moon her hair had taken on a similar shade, the rich gold of daylight fading to a luminescent pearl in the darker hours.

He tries to make sense of how he’s ended up here, locked in the dungeons of The Dark One, a man whose heart he hadn’t given a thought to in months. Since that first night in Misthaven, madly scribbling her face in abstract lines and shapes because he could hardly admit to himself the amount of space she was about to take up in his head.

_“I ask nothing of Captain Hook.”_

Breathing hurts. He tries to take small breaths, nothing too taxing, but uncomfortable all the same. A sharp, foreboding pain is lingering somewhere near his ribs and he’s worried he’s punctured something. His imagination unfurls between his eyes and he begins to envision a small, malevolent hole somewhere at the top of his lung, and it’s expanding with every breath.

_“But Captain Jones, I have use of him.”_

Logically, he knows that when the moonlight hits your skin it doesn’t feel like anything. It’s not as if the light that shines from the moon is the opposite equivalent of the warmth human beings leech from the sun. All the same, by some miracle, the light from the moon manages to linger against his hot, swollen face, and he could swear that he feels her breath against his skin; if he were to close the other eye, he might imagine her lips in the brief moment before they reach his own.

He takes a breath, and it hurts. _Gods help him, but she had been beautiful._

****

…

1 YEAR EARLIER.

The blonde-haired, sweet-cheeked, witch-queen of Misthaven lives in an enormous palace made of stone, and her infamy stems from the unimaginable pain of her loneliness. When you hear “witch,” whispered between so many mouths you might assume that it’s her magic; that’s where the fear and the legend would lie. But you would be wrong. It’s actually the loneliness. (And maybe the hair.)

“I saw it through the window once,” giggles the butcher’s daughter, “all golden and soft.”

Queen Regina used to parade her power through the countryside, big black carriage, a fleet of shiny horses, and even shinier knights with gleaming black armor. Everyone knew about _her_ magic, told tales of her well-manicured, red-tipped hands, wrist-deep in the chests of unsuspecting villagers; famous for her magic and not so much her melancholy.

Queen Emma was an experienced purveyor of witchcraft, of course, but it was hard to remember when the citizens of Misthaven rarely ever _saw_ her. She didn’t ride in a carriage or on horseback, didn’t take walks through the villages, and most certainly did not host royal balls.

****

…

Her parents had been forced to relinquish their throne at far too young of an age, with a tragically young daughter who had only just begun to grasp the nature of her role in their kingdom. Most commoners were only partially aware of the truth of their departure from the throne, as well as Princess Emma’s sudden rise. All they really knew was that it was tragic, and sad, and they might look at their own children and think about the impossibility. They could never leave them; never ask _so much_ of them.

The King and Queen had gone away on a diplomatic mission, never to return. A few short weeks after their departure, a haggard-looking bluebird had landed on Princess Emma’s window on a cold, rainy morning in early winter with a scrap of fabric tied hastily to its leg.

 _We’re sorry_ , it had read, smudged and faded from the wetness of the sea and the rain, _we will always love you_. She would never forget the sensation of that damp missive slipping between her soft fingers. It fell with all the grace of an iron weight; no gentle, slow drifting towards the palace floor, but a sudden, violent drop. She ran.

****

…

It was only mere _moments_ after she first inhaled the smell of rain and dirt that she found herself flat on her back, the sky a bloated, slate grey above her. Her nose ached, and she felt a warm, wet liquid worm its way between her chapped lips. It tasted like iron, like swords, like armor, her own blood fled and returned to her, salty and unpleasant, but familiar. Aunt Ruby hovering over her, the concern and pity clouding her features, and she already couldn’t stand it.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, her voice foreign, soft, and _irritating_. The anger grew sharp from the blood in her mouth. It struck the insides of her throat and ignited a fire that landed hot in the pit of her stomach, and the fragile veins within the palms of her hands swelled to the surface in the caverns of her clenched fists. Ruby stopped speaking long enough to inhale, her eyes widening and nostrils flaring, whispering, “Emma,” with grating, worried inflections. And Emma, suddenly too old for softness yelled, _shrieked_ , her magic amplifying the tenor of her words to a deafening pitch, a simple, “No,” an ambiguous negative in defiance of _their_ absence. Her hands gripped the wet earth and for a moment it was as if all sound had been suddenly sucked from the world. 

And she was alone. And for another five years the same, alone, without pity, without company. She hadn’t had to ask, but it was what she wanted. And so it was.

Until.

****

…

Captain Jones of The Jolly Roger, "Terror of the High Seas," absolutely _hated_ visiting the palace at Misthaven (at first). The damn thing echoed as if it were a tomb, a sepulchral structure covered in ivy and roses the color of dark summer cherries. He had been summoned. That's how it began. And he could recall the fury he had felt in his gut; no one _summons_ Captain Jones. No one alive should _know_ Captain Jones existed. And Captain Hook, that _scourge_ , he answers to _no man_.

"It's a good thing I play the part of woman then, isn't it?" she had asked softly, never once pretending to try and assuage the anger and disbelief in his eyes.

"What would you ask of Captain Hook?" 

Somehow pushing the question out from between his teeth despite the uncomfortable clenching of his jaw. "What do you desire, your majesty?" (Spitefully, ironically, at first.)

"I ask nothing of Captain Hook," the soft, husky tone of her voice escaping from behind a lonely, worn-out throne. It appeared to be made of a dark, antique wood, with a velvet cushion that could have been a deep, vibrant emerald, once upon a time. And when she had stepped out from behind that sorry excuse for a royal throne and into the light of the late afternoon, he had felt the anger flee from his blood like a fish freed from its hook. And it swam, and swam, and he clenched his hand within the deep pocket of his coat.

Her feet were bare, so he could only discern a brief hint of sound from her steps against the cold stone floor. She wore a dress of quiet gold that sparkled in the sun, and her hair flowed long and liquid-like down the length of her back.

"...But Captain Jones," she continued playfully, "I have use of _him_."

And he was lost.

****

…

When she had made the decision to summon the _infamous_ Captain Hook, it had been an impulsive one. She had imbibed a little too much red, sweet wine on the evening of her 20th birthday, had read the aged, nearly illegible note from her parents one too many times, watched the rain falling outside of her window for a little too long. And after the sad, slow, squirreling away of her parents’ note into her bedside drawer, and _after_ she poured herself another glass of wine, it was all that was left.

Her navy’s many, _many_ reports on the “adventures” of Captain Hook and The Jolly Roger read much like the seafaring novels her father had read to her before bed, but with a touch more violence. And booze. And there were some amusing sexual anecdotes that made her blush. It was one swashbuckling tale after another; a man, a legend, followed so enthusiastically by his illustrious reputation that she could not help but sniff out the tragedy that no doubt acted as a rather fluffed cushion on his Captain’s chair.

From her strategic position behind her mother’s throne she could hear the sound of his boots against the floor. They echoed. They sounded mad.

She felt a small, subtle smile make its away across her face, and that was when she heard it. The word that her Aunt Ruby would always, somehow, find _some way_ to include in her letters, “You’ll be fine on your own, _until_ ,” “You can run the kingdom from the palace, _until_.”

Until. 

Until his lips touch the back of your hand. Until he clicks his feet together like a foot soldier (to make you laugh). Until he makes you think of your parents without wanting to choke on their names (because you wish they could have known him).

Until.

Until he makes you want to leave. 

****

…

He had learned about the danger inherent in asking the question after the fact. The question everyone wanted answered but were too afraid to ask: "Why stay here, my Queen?"

It would take _months_ of playful witticisms and vague innuendo before he would gather the courage to even _think_ about asking that question, and when he _had_ asked, and it _had_ left him flat on his back in the middle of the throne room, soft belly exposed, he had finally realized the depths of the Queen’s loneliness. It wasn't just the anger, the brief moment of terror he felt as he found himself in such a vulnerable state, her lithe form towering above him, palms still crackling with barely-restrained magic. It wasn't just the fear of her wrath that kept him from repeating the question, but it was the sadness hidden away behind it; locked away and undisclosed and he knew better than to tamper with it (at first).

“That’s none of _your_ concern,” she responded angrily, allowing him a brief glimpse of her stubborn nature. She had left him lying there, on his back, stunned and silent (for once).

****

…

“I wish to see the world,” she admitted quietly from behind the safety of her high-backed throne.

“On _my_ ship?” he had asked, only momentarily surprised.

Queen Emma had smiled in return, and he felt his heart thud uncomfortably in his chest. He allowed himself only a moment of _brief_ disappointment when she replied, “No, of course not. But maybe, perhaps…”

He had tried not to stare at the sight of her bottom lip being sucked nervously between her teeth. He tried, _valiantly_ , he might add, to ignore the rising blush in her cheeks, the sight of her bare feet, only _just_ visible beneath the seat of her throne, agitatedly sliding back and forth, back and forth, as if she were grasping for comfort. Valiantly, he tried. He coughed.

“Perhaps…?” he prompted, head cocked pleasantly to one side, eyes searching, and his clever lips began their familiar, charming, upward ascent.

“I would pay you,” she abruptly replied, as if embarrassed by her own request, and he couldn’t help but be thoroughly tickled by her sudden shyness, the nervous energy she could barely contain.

He made to step forward, slowly, gently, the way you might approach a horse that’s been frightened, it’s large, over-taxed heart beating dangerously quickly beneath its breast and if you startled it, if you moved too fast, it might flee or die. “My Queen,” he said softly, smiling sweetly, “what would you ask of me?”

****

…

And so he returned to his ship with a new mission, his vengeance, he decided, only temporarily postponed. And it had _nothing_ , for here too, he had also decided, absolutely _nothing_ to do with the particularly golden shade of her hair. Or the way the shimmering, gossamer fabric of her dress had clung to her form like a second skin (and of the softness beneath, he had to _wonder_ ). Or the green of her eyes; how he had thought, had racked his brain to recall if he had ever seen that particular color before. Because he could almost swear, in his now 300+ years, that he had _never_ seen it before. And how, _in all the realms_ , could that be _possible_?

“Paid handsomely, Mr. Smee,” he exuberantly exclaimed from behind the wheel, his eyes deceptively bright. “Riches beyond your wildest dreams.”

And in between the pages of Milah’s sad, curiously angry expression, he had certainly not drawn the face of the Queen. He had seen the vision of a “woman” in a dream, and he knew he had to begin practicing his artistic form now anyway; he was being paid for it after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry that this took me so long to update. I'm pretty sure I posted the first chapter in August, so if it's any consolation, I was finishing up graduate school in between then and now. I'm hoping to finish this soon, but I do have other writing obligations (namely Fantasy Pretzel AU Week, which is later this month), so I don't know when exactly the third and final update will happen, but it _will_ happen. 
> 
> I'd also like to quickly thank Kat (@abbadons-little-witch) and Chinx (@seastarved) for their much-appreciated help with this chapter! And of course, any of you who are still reading this, thank you, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! xo

On the first morning he is forced to admit to himself that he can no longer keep track of how many days it’s been since he left Misthaven (for the final time, it would seem), he would swear that he can hear the waves breaking against the rocks beneath his window. As a boy, his mother had kept a large conch shell at his bedside, white with a vibrant shade of pink lining its insides. When he couldn’t sleep, she had told him, hold the shell up to your ear; listen to the waves, the sea, and the calls of all the men that will venture out, never to return. “But your father _will_ return,” she had reassured him one evening, long, long ago. “He’ll be back soon my love, I promise.”

She hadn’t broken that promise, his father had returned to them. A little worse for wear, his pockets perhaps a bit lighter than they should have been, but he returned just the same. His mother, however, had not been there to welcome him home, and Captain Hook’s sad story continued on as it was always meant to.

...

The last afternoon he had left Misthaven, a few days before his ship had been ravaged and coveted by The Dark One and his armies, they had gotten into a terrible fight. Worse than when he had barely known her, only because there were harsher truths to reveal, barely healed wounds to pick over and pry apart. All of her intelligence revealed the same truth, that The Dark One was finished with waiting, he was coming for her kingdom, for her and her magic.

Of all the times he had imagined confessing his love for her, this had never been it. The clouds had been heavy and dark that morning, a storm brewing in the harbor and he knew he would have to set off shortly if he wanted to avoid the full brunt of the poor weather. A foreboding omen to be sure. He had dropped the right words at the wrong time like an anchor offshore; he could feel the aftershocks in his bones as if he were made of nothing more than planks of wood swollen with water.

“I will not allow that monster to destroy one more person I love.”

The fire had been crackling on the hearth to ward away the chill of the coming winter, and it seemed to resonate with a strange, deafening loudness after his secret had been mistakenly revealed. Her arms had been wrapped tightly around her midsection. Whether she was shielding her heart or trying to prevent its escape, he couldn’t quite decide.

She answered with a soft gasp of heartbreaking disbelief. More breath than voice, it floated across the drying air between them, her hair curling around her shoulders and chin, getting long enough to wrap around her head and torso like a long, silk scarf.

“ _What?_ ”

He can remember feeling the unique chill of the castle’s stone walls seeping into his skin despite the many layers of fabric he wore in preparation for the trip. He wished for that fire now, the warmth of her skin, the blankets getting heavier every night, piled on, one right on top of another in anticipation of a coming hibernation. He should have answered her when she had asked, should have rushed the question back into her mouth and placed his fingers against her lips and repeated himself until there could be no doubt in her mind.

“I love you, Emma,” he should have whispered the words into her mouth, over, and over, and over again.

“I love you.”

…

1 YEAR EARLIER.

The first treasure he brings her is a “book,” and he cannot help but be charmed at the bluntness of her disappointment. She attempts to quickly mask her displeasure, but he smiles and stares at the sudden, lovely blush in her cheeks. He has to silently remind himself that he will not be falling in love with her.

"This is... unexpected," she begins tentatively; running her hand over the worn, leather bound cover.

"I would imagine so, Your Highness. Expecting The Holy Grail on the first go, were we?"

Yet another blush blooms in her cheeks and down her neck and he cannot help but wonder how far it travels. Whether it simply ends at the top of her chest, or moves further down, towards the soft skin of her belly, down to her knees; to her feet that are, quite curiously, almost always bare.

"You _are_ a pirate," she lightly insists, and he returns his gaze to the playful sparkle in her eyes.

"Well observed, my lady, but not all treasure is silver and gold," he takes a small step forward, "If I may?"

She returns the book into his waiting hands, it's heavy binding and stiff, yellowed pages acting as a thick barrier between their fingers and he feels a strange, restless twitching. The compulsion to brush his hand against hers is all in his head. Not real. But she's standing at his shoulder and he hears, _feels_ , her intake of breath as he cracks it open, smells the flowered perfume lining her neck.

Vivid colors are splashed across its pages; sophisticated and complex illustrations line the margins, with thickly written script sandwiched in between. He knows that it’s a religious text, and he thinks it hails from somewhere to the south of Misthaven, but it’s hard to know with a manuscript this old.

He doesn't think she intends to whisper, or even speak for that matter, and if she hadn't been so close he might not have heard her surprised, "It's beautiful," or noticed the slight hitch in her breathing.

"An illuminated manuscript, drawn by the most boring monks of the medieval age."

She raises an eyebrow, "Boring?"

"Oh yes, Your Majesty. Some of the stuffiest lads you'll ever meet, saying nothing of their infallible piety."

"You sound bitter, Captain," she observes humorously. She reclaims the book from his hands, running her own fingers across the bright reds and blues across the top of the page.

"I would never stoop so low," responding in kind, a brief quirk of his lips, and he is absolutely _not_ flirting with a _Queen_.

The light of the late afternoon sun floods the throne room, and with it he feels a sudden shifting of the air, the mood of their exchange taking on a new and intriguing shape. Their flirting cadences suddenly snuffed out as she pauses in her exploration of the text.

He cannot know if she expects him to answer, so he remains silent at her question, "How did they do it?"

Her eyes suddenly meet his and he is again struck by the unreal color, the flecks of gold within the pools of green.

"Locked away in their temples? Captain?"

"How did they do what, Your Majesty?"

"Create something so beautiful, having seen so little of the world?"

When he had found the manuscript, he hadn't really considered the implications as far as her own life was concerned. But now, looking at her awed perusal of the text in her hands, he can't quite bring himself to regret it. He had spent too many hours standing at the bow of his ship, imagining how she might look at his side, golden hair waving in the breeze, eyes eager and bright.

A small, hopeful part of him wonders if he’s planted a seed in her mind. A desire for more than this castle, these same rooms. He finds himself suddenly anxious to return to his ship, to find more, bring her more, to show her that the world is nothing to be afraid of.

“I’m certain I don’t know, Your Highness,” he responds politely, carefully, “would you like to see more?”

…

The first time that they touch, he's not entirely sure it's an accident. Because he has been steadfast in resisting the urge to brush his rough, dirty fingers along the soft skin of her knuckles, and she hadn't initially seemed the type to act impulsively.

But it's the look in her eyes afterwards, a kind of "I should have known," introspective stare that she briefly casts his way, and it's tinged with a longing and regret that he recognizes all too well. It's branded along the walls of his heart and when he sees that same pain from the outside looking in; he didn't realize it might hurt _worse_ , but, here we are.

It's early winter and he hasn't seen her in quite a few weeks. She's wearing shoes for once, as they walk silently, side by side through the courtyard. The last time he had been here it had been lush with abundant greenery, no cultivation to speak of, just wild and rich and untethered. It's all grey and brown now, with bare branches and frosted stone, and even the Queen looks paler; her hair nearly white, her lips a pale pink, cheeks barely flushed. She doesn't look ill by any means, but he's seen her in the heat of mid-summer and he can't be certain, but "flourishing," seemed like an apt term at the time.

She "trips," and when he goes to catch her, their fingers touch. She's draped in furs, but she wears no gloves and that's his first inkling; that maybe she wanted this to happen. He's never been much bothered by the cold. He might button up a bit more, but he's never been the type for gloves and hats. It's probably impractical, he'd probably save himself a lot of grief later on if he put more effort into protecting his vulnerable bits from the ice and wind on the deck of his ship, but he's never been one for practicality.

Her hands are just as soft as he had imagined, but the strength of her grip had been unexpected. She put on a good show, certainly, but he had envisioned her bones as hollow as a bird's; felt his heart skip a beat when he watched her glide down the stone steps of the palace and wait for her to slip and shatter at his feet.

"Thank you, Captain," he hears her murmur in between the rapid beats of his heart.

He can't remember the last time he'd known an intimacy like this, however fleeting it would appear in his memory later that night. In the hundreds of years since Milah, his expectations of physical interactions had dwindled; his needs were met (and he was sure to meet the needs of others), but it was also perfunctory and business-like. In the time since he had lost Milah, he often craved the feeling of salt and ocean-spray against his skin more so than the touch of another.

And now his timeline has suddenly shifted; with one carefully placed twist in her step, he has "in the time since the Swan Queen," and the warmth of her touch melts the dried salt away.

"Of course, Your Majesty."

He notices a subtle clenching of her fist afterwards, a visible discomfort at his touch, and when she makes to wipe her hand along the front of her cloak, the small, insecure boy inside him has difficulty resisting, “No need for fear of lice with _this_ Captain, I can assure you.”

At the very least, the Queen has the decency to look embarrassed, and she clasps her hands together before they can touch the pure white of her cloak, “My apologies, Captain, that was not—” 

In the brief stretch of her silence he hears the loud, obnoxious cawing of a raven and observes the wheels turning in her head, the careful way she answers, “It’s not important, I do apologize.”

A rare smile blesses her features, and he feels his own shoulders drop at her graceful change of subject. 

“What have you brought me this time?”

…

When he returns to the palace a few months later with a new treasure to show his Queen, it’s slightly stained with a few drops of his blood, but he doesn’t think it any less beautiful. The thick layers of snow and ice have finally begun to thaw, and the world is wet. The colors of the palace and the surrounding grounds are muddy and vibrant, and he can smell the earth with every breath.

As he limps down the long hall towards the throne room he notices that all the windows have been thrown open, and a fresh, cool wind wafts through the dusty tapestries and heavy, ornate rugs that line the floor. As he approaches the closed door at the end of the hall he takes a moment to envision it, Her Majesty, draped in the heaviest finery she can afford, her deceptively strong arms casting aside those cumbersome, depressing curtains and lifting the ancient latches of the large, imposing windows.

“Captain!”

He was so lost in his thoughts he hadn’t heard the door open, but she’s suddenly making quick, long strides towards him, a dress of pale lavender flowing gracefully behind her; hair done up in a variety of intricate braids, as if she were too busy to handle its messy length in the early whirlwind of the warmer weather.

“It’s so nice to see you,” she speaks rapidly, her face flushed, and she seems almost immediately abashed, as if sensing that she may have spoken out of turn. 

“I just mean,” she takes another breath, slower now, and there’s no way in _hell_ he would be able to stop himself from smiling when she finally says, “It’s been a while, and I have been eager to see what may have kept you so long.”

“Ah,” he begins, the red of his own face deepening with her curious gaze, “that is something of a sordid tale, I’m afraid.”

When he pulls the long, heavy sword from the scabbard at his waist, she gasps in surprise, not in admiration of the jeweled handle as he had expected, but at the alarming stain of red which has begun to dye the fabric of his tunic.

Appearing concerned, she places a gentle hand on his forearm and he feels himself involuntarily flinch, which only pulls on the mediocre stitchwork in a less than helpful fashion. “You’re hurt!”

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” he insists, “I’ve had worse scratching my nose with the wrong hand.”

His attempts at levity appear to fall flat as a serious scowl mars her lovely features, and all he wants is to see her smile again. “I insist that you get it seen to,” she replies, “follow me.”

He tries to keep the obviousness of his slow, meandering steps to a minimum in an attempt to keep her from worrying, but it becomes especially difficult as she leads him down a long, winding staircase into a part of the palace he has yet to see. The door is made of a dark wood, like so many of the others, and when she pushes it aside to allow him past he finds his senses immediately assaulted with the earthy, alcoholic burn that so often accompanies herbal remedies.

He wasn’t sure _what_ he had expected to find, perhaps some kind of doctor or weathered old woman with gnarled, experienced hands, hunched over a large, thick tome filled with a wealth of healing secrets. In point of fact, the room was fairly bright for being so close to the dungeons, and it was entirely devoid of old crones.

“If you’ll take a seat there, Captain, we’ll have you patched up in no time.”

She points one delicate finger towards a high-table positioned at the back wall, and he notes the dried herbs and flowers hanging overhead, the burning candles which seem to be floating at various points throughout the room. There’s an alchemist’s table, naturally, and with each table, bench, or bookshelf there seems to be a carefully organized selection of various bottles, books, and salves. Impressed, he takes a slow, careful seat atop the table to which she had directed him, and held his hand tightly against his side, desperately trying to ignore the rapid, leaking warmth oozing from his insides.

“A fine setup, I must say, Your Majesty,” he tries to smile, but the concern in her otherwise bright eyes would seem to suggest that the usually tanned shade of his skin has grown quite a bit lighter in the last few minutes.

“Please, Captain,” she returns steadily, “Emma will do just fine.”

“Emma,” he whispers softly, and she sees fit to bless him with a genuine smile as she returns to his side with a small bowl filled with water, a clean rag draped over the edge.

The removing of his coat and tunic is far less mortifying than either of them had expected, given the worsening state of his injury, and it’s only when he feels the sudden heat of her hand against his side, catches sight of her smooth, pale flesh, bathed in the red of his wound that he lifts a hand to stop her.

“It has to be disinfected and re-stitched, or it _will_ fester, Captain.”

“It’s Killian,” he answers softly, his eyelids getting heavier, “you can call me Killian.”

…

The first time they kiss, it is only _slightly_ an accident, and it is _entirely_ his fault.

He’s been a guest at Misthaven for two weeks, and he can feel the uneasiness of remaining behind the thick, stone walls weighing heavier on his heart with every passing day. It’s not as if he’s ungrateful for the Queen’s ( _Emma’s_ ) assistance. He’s absolutely certain, without her insistence that his wound be mended, he would have died in a manner of days. But he had been entirely unprepared to spend so much time in her presence so soon, if anything, he had hoped that after a few more months of treasure-gathering and storytelling, that he _might_ be able to convince her to take a short trip with him. Just around one of the nearby islands, nothing too strenuous, but now he was in in her company every day, and lest he forget, in her debt.

Of course, the Queen was very adamantly opposed to any kind of “debt” to be repaid, she had simply been acting “honorably.” He had heard the painful echo of Liam’s voice in his head when she had spoken the words, an unsettling reminder that had him brooding and despondent for a long, uncomfortably silent few days. The weather had managed to get even warmer in the time since his rather dramatic arrival, and they had taken to walking the palace grounds together when neither of them had been able to come up with anymore excuses as to why they shouldn’t.

The bright, happy sound of her voice when he had first arrived, “ _It’s so nice to see you_ ,” seemed to persist in a maddening loop inside his head, and although she had apparently quelled such excitement now, he _desperately_ wanted to see it again, hear it, _feel_ it.

The sun had only just begun to set as they approached the nearby lake, and his ability to walk without feeling as if his guts might come loose seemed to have improved significantly. He had taken a closer look at her work after his bath, and the stitches were near perfect in size and length, the flesh itself pulled together with an unworldly seamlessness, which he suspected was the result of some small magicks on her part. There was simply no logical explanation as to how quickly he seemed to be healing otherwise.

“You seem to be walking much better, Killian.”

The sound of his name on her lips was still a satisfying one, no matter how many times he had heard her say it the past few days, still resisting the urge to fidget nervously whenever she uttered the word. “I suspect that has more to do with your work, than me, Emma.”

The modest blush in her cheeks paid a perfect compliment to the pale, warm colors of the late afternoon sky. The palace grounds at Misthaven were impeccably kept, and again, he suspected magic. There were few people at the palace, besides Emma, and he had only ever seen them flitting in and out of doorways; they didn’t behave as if they were regularly staffed. He paused in thought at the base of an exceptionally large, ancient looking tree, its flowers barely budding at the end of its long, thick branches. _Where **was** the palace staff?_

“Are you in pain, Killian?”

The lovely yet mildly despondent face of the Queen appeared suddenly in his vision, and he shook himself from his idle, meaningless thoughts. “What was that, love?”

The endearment slipped quite unexpectedly from his lips, and he nearly cursed himself, although he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret it, not with the enticing shade of pink in her cheeks.

“I asked if you were in pain, Captain, you seemed… concerned?”

“It’s nothing, Your Majesty, I assure you,” he smiled, but yet again, his attempts at deception seemed to do little to deter her current line of questioning.

In the silence of his affirmation they observed the final few moments of the sun, the deep, orange light falling over the horizon, giving the appearance of a forest enveloped in flame. The insects began their nightly chorus as the birds and wildlife returned to their dens for the night, and he took a deep, calming breath. For all its beauty, he couldn’t help wishing for the salty tang of the ocean against his lips, the smell of it pervading his nostrils.

“I simply worry, Captain—”

“It was ‘Killian,’ mere moments ago, _Emma_ ,” he interrupted cheekily, “Have you forgotten our new arrangement so soon?”

For so remarkably formidable a woman, she certainly blushed a great deal, to his _immense_ detriment.

“Forgive me, _Killian_ ,” he noted the nervous wringing of her bare hands, “I only wished to make my gratitude… evident,” she paused for breath and continued, “I realize that a man such as yourself probably has greater… ambitions, and I feel as if I never gave you much choice in the matter—”

“It’s truly no trouble at all, Emma—”

Their hurried voices and careful words fumbled over and under one another, uncertain yet entirely without deception. The urge to clearly convey their feelings to one another having seemingly reached its tense end beneath this large, imposing tree; the wind at his back, the smell of the sea distant and faint.

“I’m overwhelmed. Killian. By what you’ve brought me… it’s indescribable. And I would hate… I would hate for anything to happen to you for my sake. It’s not worth it. _I’m_ not worth such a sacrifice.”

Killian started, his eyes widening as he took in her tightly wrung hands, her eyes cast uncomfortably towards the lake over his shoulder. He forced a small, tight smile, if only for her sake, the urge to make her reconsider her _worth_ roiling in his belly. And to say that she was _worth_ anything was a gross misstatement, for worth implied a material value, something that could be measured. And as he had quickly learned, Emma was… invaluable.

“Ah, well, just to see your smile, ‘Your Highness,’” and he winked cheekily, “would be worth any amount of pain or bloodshed I might endure at your pleasure.”

Regardless of his attempts to keep their exchange light and playful, he could see the rather serious effects of their conversation on her mood and behavior. Her returning smile was just as tense as his own, and he could observe a slight, uncomfortable pinching of her lower lip between her teeth. He suspected that royalty rarely, if ever, nibbled nervously upon their own flesh; a physical betrayal of the highest order, Emma was remarkably talented at keeping her true feelings hidden, but it was in these small, charming ticks, that she revealed herself.

Before he could reconsider his current course, he brought his thumb to that telling overbite, lightly dragging it over her lower lip in order to free it from her grasp. “Emma,” he whispers on a breath of much needed air, his own heart beating uncomfortably in his chest, “I promise—”

Whatever he had been about to say (and he’s long since forgotten), is lost in his sudden fall towards those same, reddened lips. As first kisses go, it wasn’t _quite_ his best work, by his own or any other woman’s standards, but he couldn’t quite help himself, could he? There was an unusually careful quality to this particular kiss, a gentle pressing of his lips against her own that he _thought_ he had forgotten how to execute. But it had been so very tempting, these last few days, what with all the blushing and concern. The soft words and the sound of his _name_ , “Killian,” not “Captain,” not “Hook,” but the name his mother had given him; the name his brother had used.

His lips landed against the corner of her own, and her breath tasted of violets. The sound of the wind gently rushing through the early leaves and flowers of spring would play over, and over, and over again in his mind, much in the same way her enthusiastic words of greeting had slowly driven him towards this very moment. When he comes to his senses, intending to move quickly away, possibly far away, running, no, _sprinting_ back to the harbor, he’s surprised to find that he’s quite firmly affixed to her side. 

Her light, strong hands grip the lapels of his coat, her eyes shut tightly against the sudden intrusion of his kiss. “Your Majesty,” he begins, softly, “I am truly so—” 

Again, an interruption, a thought half made in a moment not yet formed, and before he can take a breath her lips have returned with a surprising amount of force (although, he thinks, frantically, he should have learned to stop underestimating her by now).

“Please don’t apologize,” she pleads, fiercely, and it’s enough to make a strange, unfamiliar wetness gather at the corners of his eyes. He’s not certain how long they remain, but enough time passes that he can see the moonlight shining around them, and while it makes little sense, it seems as if the boughs of the tree have grown longer, sheltering them against the wind. The air smells floral and rich, and were it not for the coolness of the air, he would have thought it midsummer.

“A strange magic, Emma,” he smiles against her lips, with little trepidation, and he feels her own sigh of relief against his chest, “wonderful indeed.”

…

Queen Emma of Misthaven has never felt this light before. She knows that it’s a lie, of course, the heaviness will inevitably return, as it always does. He tries to hide it, but, she sees his restlessness, feels it in the tug of his hand within hers. He’s going to ask, she _knows_ , and she _wants_ , more than anything she’s _ever_ wanted, does she _want_ to answer, to release a breathless, “Yes,” in between a rush of kisses and an enticing loss of fabric.

They’re not lovers, not yet, but the thought of it plays maddeningly slowly in the periphery of her vision, and she can’t discern whether or not she’s glimpsing the future or merely daydreaming. She wishes she was as strong as her kingdom, as Killian, believes her to be, but late at night, when he’s left her, cheeks flushed and legs shaking, the doubt and the cowardice creeps in.

...

She could hear Aunt Ruby’s voice in these moments, her face unseasonably warm from his attentions, warning her, urging her to see reason.

“But how could it be?” she had asked, imploringly, “you know how much Regina appreciates dramatics. If it had been her, she would have made it known.”

“What are you trying to imply?” Emma had answered, angrily, hands curled into fists, “that I did this to _myself_?”

“Emma,” Ruby insisted, firmly, her hands gently cupping her face, “it’s _alright_ , your parents—”

“My parents are _gone_.”

The conversation never got very far, Emma retreating into the familiar haven of her anger, Ruby too afraid of possible dismissal that she ignored her own instincts and refrained from pushing the issue.

“If it’s not Regina,” Emma continued logically, “it’s The Dark One, and I _will_ free myself eventually.”

…

Eventually. How could she tell him? This strange, wonderful man who had shown her brief, marvelous glimpses of a world she had never seen, how could she keep him trapped, miserable, at her side?

 _He’ll leave_ , she thought, an attempt at consolation, _he’ll leave like they always do, and I’ll break their curse as I was always meant to. Alone._

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please let me know if y'all are enjoying this. I've got 2 or 3 more chapters planned, but I'll def. need some proper encouragement. It took me forever to get _this_ far. Feel free to stop by my [Tumblr](http://hencethebravery.tumblr.com).


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